What Do You Need?
by ForeverOdd
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, begins with Molly helping Sherlock realize just where his heart really lies and goes on to his and John's reunion. Rated T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**First attempt at a Sherlock fanfiction. This one has been spinning around in my head since Sunday and I knew it needed to come out when I wrote it in a night when I haven't been able to write much of anything in months. This is a post-Reichenbach story and is a potential two-shot but I might just leave it at one. Would really appreciate the feedback but even if you don't review I hope you enjoy it!**

_**What Do You Need?**_

It had been six months since the funeral. But as Molly Hooper stood under the spray of the shower in her flat, death was the last thing on her mind.

Which was odd for a woman who worked in the morgue.

But it was the living that concerned her now. One very alive man who needed her help. He'd told her more than once that she'd done enough, that he wouldn't blame her for not wanting to risk her life more than she already had by helping him. She'd just calmly met those ice-blue eyes with a very simple "what do you need?"

It was unlikely that she was being watched but they'd kept him practically under lock and key the first few months as a precaution. He had still been written about in the papers and his face had been splashed across every paper in London at one time or another. It was an impossible face to forget.

It wasn't hard for her to be at home so much, she wasn't terribly social anyway, but for him? She'd thought it would be like keeping a wild animal in the flat. But he was not at all what she'd expected. He was incredibly sedate. Though she was sure his mind never stopped working. She would leave in the morning for work and find him in the same place when she got back. Sunk low in a chair, fingers steepled under his chin, staring at nothing or, sometimes, with his eyes closed. He would often lapse into silences that sometimes lasted for days.

She'd stopped trying to get him to engage him in conversation after the first two weeks. He must've caught on eventually that the silence had become deafening and was making her very tense because he'd started asking how her day was when she came home as if he'd been genuinely curious. She'd even started to stutter less around him, it became easier to talk to him as time went on, not that they talked all the time. It was very nearly exactly what she'd always wanted with him. But he still had that look. The one that he had when he thought no one was looking. She was getting better at catching him at it now. Now that she counted. He was so sad.

Leaving the toilet, she made her way to the bedroom to dress. She was picking him up in an hour. He'd been sitting dwelling on something when she'd come home the night before and when she woken up the next morning he'd been in the same place. For the first time in a day and a half he'd spoken.

"I'm going out today."

She'd been startled at the sudden burst of speech. Though not by the content.

"Oh. Um. Are you sure? Is it safe, d'you think?"

This was a familiar dance for them now. He'd made this decision several times in the last 2 months and she always asked if he thought it was safe, if he was sure. He'd first started going out at night, sneaking out of the window in case the door was being watched. He'd determined that no one had been watching her home.

It had been made clear. Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. None of them were her. She'd never been so grateful to be considered not worth the trouble of a sniper.

What did surprise her was the tone of his voice. It was rough, not surprisingly so for someone who likely hadn't spoken in over a day, but it was also unsure. Doubtful. Like he was trying to convince himself he should.

"I'll be fine. I just need to…see something."

She knew better than to ask what.

"Do you want me to drop you off somewhere? Or pick you up? I've got some errands to run today so I'll be in and out quite a bit."

He was silent for a moment. "I would appreciate the lift back. Around 4."

She put on her cheeriest smile. "Sure, where am I meeting you?"

"The cemetery."

Her smile slid off. There was no need to ask which one.

"Oh. Um. Alright…"

"Alright." Then he'd gotten up and, as he'd said, went out.

And now it was 3 o'clock and she was going to pick him up in an hour. She stepped into her bedroom, securing the towel around herself.

And nearly dropped it in shock a moment later.

Because there he was. Sherlock Holmes. Sitting on her bed. Staring at the wall.

"What…I thought…wasn't I picking you up? At 4?" she stammered out.

"Came back early." It was that same tone again. Rough and unsure.

"Oh. Um. Ok. You ok?"

"I'm-I don't know." He actually sounded upset with himself. Like not knowing how he was was somehow appalling to him.

"Did…um…did something…happen?"

"I saw John."

That wasn't terribly surprising. He'd seen him there several times. So obviously this time was different.

"Did…did John see you?"

"Of course not." There was that same old arrogance.

"Then…what happened?"

"He keeps talking to me. It. The stone. Asks me not to be dead. Why does he keep doing that?" His frustration at this was apparent.

She smiled a little. She remembered a line from John's blog over a couple of years earlier. 'What's incredible is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.' "He cares for you."

"It's been six months. But he still goes. Every month."

She couldn't help the half-laugh that escaped. He looked at her, surprised by the sound.

"What?"

She walked over to her closet and pulled open the door, blocking her from his sight as she exchanged the towel for her robe. She came back out to sit beside him on the bed.

"Did you really expect him to just get over it? To forget you? To move on? As far as he's concerned, his best friend told him he'd been lying to him from the day they'd met and then proceeded to fling himself off the top of a building."

He winced. "I was trying to…"

"Protect him. I know. And make him hate you. Make him believe you were a liar so maybe he wouldn't hurt for losing you. Everything you did was to protect him. So of course he's still grieving. He may never stop grieving."

He looked so perplexed. "We didn't even know each other for two years…"

She twisted her fingers together a little, stared at her hands. "Doesn't matter. Time isn't always a factor."

"In what?"

He was staring at her. She could feel it. "I think I can guess pretty well what John is feeling, you know. Devastated. Lost. Alone. It must be horrible for him."

"What must be?" He sounded desperate for an answer.

She looked at him then. Compassionately, because he just didn't understand.

"To love someone so much and to suddenly have them gone and you never got to say it."

He just kept staring. She felt like something on a slide. Still not getting it. Time to be blunt.

"John loves you. And not as a flatmate. Not even just as his best friend."

He looked shocked for a moment, but quickly recovered with a shake of his head. "You're wrong."

"No. No, actually, I'm not. Because it's like how I knew there was something wrong with you. Because you looked sad when you thought he wasn't looking. When he thought you weren't looking, he would look at you. And I could just see it. He may not even know. I think he always preferred girls as a rule but you broke the mold for him."

"How do you know?"

"Because it's the way I've been looking at you for years."

He took a breath. "Molly…I'm-"

She shook her head and patted his hand. "It's alright. I don't mind so much anymore. Somehow…it was enough for you to tell me I counted. Knowing you trusted me, which I don't think is something you do easily. That meant something to me. But more than that it's because…you look at him that way too."

Now he looked downright stunned.

"You told me everything that's happened with Moriarty. With all the cases you've solved since you and John met. But mostly I knew when you told me about that day on the roof. You were worried for John, before anyone else he was your first concern. You called John and you never call anyone. You tried to make him doubt you so that he wouldn't be hurt by what you had to do to protect him. You jumped off a building. You arranged everything. The body, your homeless network, the man on the bicycle. Everything to make him believe you were dead because it was the only thing that was going to save his life. Look at everything you did for him."

"Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. They-"

"Are important to you but John comes first. Always."

He thought about it for a moment. She wasn't sure he was going to speak again. She should have known better.

"Because…" He trailed off, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

"Because you love him. It won't kill you to say it."

"My brother…he said caring is a disadvantage. He said that all lives end and all hearts are broken."

She nodded. "That's true. And for John, your life ending broke his heart. Both your hearts, I think. Think about it a moment. You know I'm right."

He was staring at the wall again.

"You'll fix it one day, you know. When you've done what you need to. You can go back. You can tell him. Go on. Say it."

He didn't speak but his eyes got brighter, shinier. As if…

Her eyes widened and her hands fluttered uselessly. "Oh, God. Don't cry! I'm sorry! I'm totally wrong! Ignore me, I'm a prize idiot. I'm sorry."

He looked at her and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

"Did I break yours as well?"

"Mine?" she squeaked. Couldn't he just wipe the tear away? It was so…not him. She didn't know how to handle this side of him.

"Your heart?"

"Um. Not exactly. That was more my own doing, really. I never told you. Just sort of expected you to know."

"But it hurt. My not…reciprocating your feelings."

She could see he was trying to understand something. Only the truth would do. "Yeah. It hurt. Still does sometimes."

"Is it…worth it? The hurt?"

She thought about it. "It doesn't always seem like it's worth it. But it is. Because what you're feeling…most of the time it feels so good. Just fills you up. It's worse, I guess, for the people like me, who aren't loved back. Not that that's your fault! But for people like you and John? Who love each other? Well, that I expect is wonderful all the time. Even when it's not."

She gave him a crooked smile, "I know that sounds confusing. I can't really think of a way to say it. Just…yeah, it's worth it."

He looked away again, was silent again for a long minute. "I…love him."

She nodded. "Good."

A smile crept onto his face. "I love John."

She should be devastated. Hearing the man she loved confess his love for someone else. And a man no less. But she was smiling because it was like watching a light switch on in him. "Yes, you do."

"And John loves me."

"Of course, he does. Who could resist?" His smile became a cocky smirk.

But then his grin faded and hers went with it. "What if…what if I can never go back?" He'd told her in the first few weeks that he might never be able to let everyone know he was still alive. That it might be safer for them all if he disappeared all together, forever. Suddenly, knowing his and John's feelings for one another, that became a terrifying possibility where before it had just been a grudgingly accepted probability.

"You will," she said with absolute confidence, reaching over and squeezing his hand. "We'll make sure of it."

He turned his hand over so they were palm to palm. "You'll help me?"

She smiled. "What do you need?"

**Considering reuniting John and Sherlock for the second chapter. Still toying around with it in my head. If I decide to go that route it will be up soon. Promise!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Decided to write that second part after all! This turned out quite a bit longer than I had intended with an appearance from someone I was not expecting to turn up at all. What can I say? I was in _A Scandal in Belgravia_** **mood! Enjoy! And I appreciate all the reviews I got for chapter 1!**

Molly Hooper was glad to be home.

Not that the last year hadn't been…well, an adventure, but she had felt the tears well in her eyes as her plane had banked over London, the city lit up like it was welcoming her back.

She looked at the man across from her and saw that his gaze was focused out the window as well. His body completely still except for his restlessly tapping fingers and the stress in his eyes.

"Welcome home, Sherlock," she said softly.

He turned his head to meet her eyes and a small smile blossomed at the corner of his mouth. "Thank you, Molly."

"Should be getting ready to land in a moment, you two. I'd buckle up. My pilot isn't known for his smooth landings."

A year ago that statement, so laden with sexual innuendo, would've had Molly blushing to the roots of her hair but she had become used to them. She looked up into the astonishingly lovely face of Irene Adler. The woman was leaning casually on Sherlock's seat, grace and power in her every curve.

"Thank you, Irene," came Sherlock's smooth response. Molly watched the pair look at one another, impossible to miss the electric charge of it (though with two such stunningly lovely people, it was hardly a surprise, and after all, Molly knew where Sherlock's heart lived) as Irene rested a hand on the man's shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze.

"Ready, handsome?"

Sherlock looked back out the window. The storm back in his eyes. "I certainly took long enough."

Molly leaned across the distance to take his hand and for a moment the three were linked. "You've barely slept in the last three years, Sherlock, doing everything you could to make sure it was safe for you to…come back. You've done it. Don't punish yourself."

Sherlock squeezed her hand. "I'm sure he'll want to do that himself."

"Well," chimed Irene, "if the good Doctor knocks you on your adorable rump, I'm more than willing to kiss it better."

Molly choked on a laugh and the women watched another smile bloom on Sherlock's face.

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Molly took a calming breath as she stood in the lab at St. Barts. It was good to be back at work she supposed. Though somehow, in the last year she had grown used to a more…active daily routine. Life with Sherlock and Irene had been anything but boring. And three years of collecting information, near misses with danger had been a kind of rebirth for the shy, sweet, dependable Molly Hooper.

The knock at the door made her go still, her mind rapidly rushing to determine the fastest alternate exit from the room before she remembered she didn't have to do that anymore. She glanced at the clock. Right on time. Must be a military thing.

Taking a break she opened the door, a smile already forming.

The man on the other side of the door looked confused for a moment before his eyes widened. "Molly?"

"John."

She held the door open for him and ushered him in. His cane making a rhythmic click on the floor as he made his way into the room. "Molly, I-I hope you don't take this offensively but I hardly recognize you!"

She laughed softly. "I know. And don't worry, I don't, I hardly recognize myself most days. It's amazing what a year out of the office and out from under the UV lights of the hospital can do."

"That's right. I-I'd heard you'd taken a leave of absence."

He shifted from foot to foot. That was out of character, she noted. John Watson had been nearly notorious for being disturbingly still. The soldier. Conserving energy for the first sign of action.

"Mmm. I did. Got some sun. Saw some of the mainland." She knew what he was seeing when he looked at her. A very different picture from what she'd presented when he'd first known her. Her hair was shorter and waved gently around her face which had, in fact, gotten some sun and was now more golden then it had been (she had spent her whole life in London, after all!). She'd lost a fair amount of weight that had only served to define her shape (those occasional near misses had required her to be fast on her feet) and her wardrobe had gone from matronly to something much more suitable to a young, single, attractive woman.

"I'm glad you got in touch with me when you got settled back in town, Molly. It really is good to see you."

She tuned back into the conversation, noticing that John had become even more restless, packing slightly and looking at corners of the room, walls, eyes shifting from object to object within an instant of looking at them. Time to cut to the chase.

"How have you been, John?"

"Me? Oh. I've been alright, I suppose. Good. Fine."

"Which is it?"

He stopped at the slight bite to her tone and looked at her oddly. This kitten has claws now Doctor Watson. It won't do for you to lie to me.

"I'm fine."

Fine. We'll play it that way if you want. "Would you mind walking a bit, I want to show you something, if it's not too much trouble for your leg."

He tapped his cane on the floor a few times and she heard him exhale. Possibly relieved that they might be leaving the hospital. "It'll hold up for a bit yet."

"Good. This way."

She led him out the door and down the hall. But instead of turning to go down the stairs, she turned to go up, following the sign labeled 'Roof Access'. Behind her, she heard his breath catch and heard his steps falter.

"John?" she said, feigning confusion.

"Um. I can't…really do stairs you see."

"Well, we both know that's not true because the elevators are down today and the lab is up on the third floor. Come along, John."

"Molly."

She turned and took his hand. "Please. Just trust me. You really need to do this."

His eyes, such kind eyes, were filled with panic. "I can't go up there, Molly. You know why."

"I do know why. I also know why you have to. And I think I could make you go up these stairs if I had to. I'd prefer not to do that."

He frowned at her. "You're different."

She smiled. "Thank you."

He continued to frown at her strangely. "I don't know if that was a compliment."

"Well I'm taking it as one. Come along." She took the first few steps up before turning to look at him. He stared at her for a moment before looking up at the door beyond. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment before taking a first hesitating step up.

They continued up in silence and with each step she heard his breathing get more labored.

"Molly," came the gasp from behind her. "I don't think I can do this. Please. Let's go back."

Her hand closed over the doorknob as she turned to look at him. Sweat was blooming on his brow and he had gone about three shades paler then he'd been when they'd first started up the stairs. "Someone wants to talk to you, John." And she threw open the door.

The light blinded them both for a moment because it was an uncharacteristically bright day for near winter in London. She watched John blink against them rapidly, before taking a step out onto the roof, eyes focusing on the black-coated figure facing away from him. For a moment she saw his heart leap into his eyes before the figure turned and another shade of color dropped from his face.

"You! How-how!"

"Lovely to see you again, Doctor Watson," Irene said from across the roof. "Beautiful day for a picnic isn't it?"

The blanket spread at her feet had a basket nestled on it and a scattering of pillows around it. Molly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Irene was very dramatic.

"Take a seat, John," Molly murmured from behind him, watching the play of shock and…something she couldn't quite read on his face.

"Molly. She-do you know who this is?"

"Oh, yes," chimed Irene. "Molly and I are dear friends now. Though not as friendly as I'd like," she cooed.

"Enough, Irene," she said softly, reaching for John's arm. He turned to look at her, eyes wide in confusion. "We'll explain everything, John. Just sit."

She led him over to the blanket and helped him settle on a pillow as Irene poured them all a glass of wine. Irene smiled kindly at him now as she handed him a glass. "It really is lovely to see, Doctor Watson. I apologize for the theatrics."

"Mycroft told me you were dead. Killed by terrorists."

"I escaped, quite literally by inches."

"You escaped terrorists who planned to behead you by yourself?"

"I had help," she said simply.

The two women saw the anger, the frustration and the grief spill into his eyes. "Oh. Of course, you did." He took a big swallow of wine.

It wouldn't be good to let him get drunk, Molly thought. Time to move this along. "John, I need to ask you something."

"How do you two even know each other?" he asked, rather than address her question.

"That's not important, John. Please, just…look at this picture," she said as she pulled a folder from the basket and slid a photo out and into his hand. It was an arrest photo of a very unassuming man with a stoic expression on his face.

John looked for a moment. "Who is he?"

"You tell us. Does he look at all familiar? Think hard, John. Think back."

He gave her a frustrated look before looking back at the photo. "I guess, he looks a bit like a bloke who used to live across the hall from me when I…moved out of my last flat."

The two women looked at one another before Molly looked back at him. "That's because he is. What about this one?" Molly handed him another picture. This one of a many tattooed, well-muscled, bald man. Another arrest photo.

This time recognition came faster. "Mrs. Hudson had him as a tenant. I saw him from time to time when we would meet for lunch. He offered to drive her for groceries and to her sister's and things. I saw him myself for the first time a few days before…" he said, trailing off.

Molly nodded before pulling out a third photo. "This one I doubt you'll recognize. He transferred into Scotland Yard as a Detective shortly before. Under Lestrade's command." The man in that photo was a little younger, handsome, but as equally displeased as the other two men to be in the position of having an arrest photo taken.

"Why are you showing me these, Molly?"

"These three men, after nearly three years of digging and building cases against them, are all now in the custody of Interpol on dozens of counts of murder. They're three of the most well-known hitmen in all of Europe."

His eyes nearly bugged out. "You mean I was living across from a hitman! And Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade?"

"Yes. They were all charged with watching over the three of you."

"By who!"

"Jim Moriarty," Irene answered.

John's face went stiff as stone. "He's dead."

"He is, but his web was still very alive. And these three needed to be sure."

"Sure of what?"

"Sure that there wasn't going to be a need to fulfill their assignments."

"Which were?"

Irene glanced at Molly and Molly took a breath. "To kill you immediately if Sherlock Holmes didn't jump off the roof of St. Barts that day."

John recoiled as if they'd jointly slapped him and scrambled to his feet. Cane forgotten. "What are you saying?" he demanded.

"Moriarty and Sherlock met here that day, John. And Moriarty told him that if Sherlock didn't jump to his death that you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would all be killed on the spot. His only three friends in the world, Moriarty said."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I told her."

John tensed as though he'd been shot. Over the former soldier's shoulder, Molly and Irene could see the dark haired man with the billowing coat and blue scarf.

"John."

An incoherent sound escaped John Watson's throat as he turned and got his first look at the man he'd buried and grieved for for the last three years. "No. No. You died. You jumped. I WATCHED you JUMP off the roof. This roof! I saw you!" His voice was breaking, cracking on every other word and his body trembled.

"You needed to think I was dead, John. It was the only way."

Molly and Irene frowned at one another. Sherlock hadn't moved. Hadn't taken a single step towards the man he loved and had fought to come back to for the last three years. His voice was cool and he held himself rigidly.

"Oh, God, this isn't real," John cried, covering his face. "I'm dreaming again. I can't take this anymore. I can't."

Still Sherlock didn't move but Molly caught the tremble in his clenched fist. She got up and walked over to John, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, turning him from Sherlock and pulling his hands down from his face.

"John. This isn't a dream. It's real. Sherlock's alive. He's been alive. He didn't die that day like you thought. He knew what was coming. He knew Moriarty's plan. He had to prepare for it. I helped him."

John choked on a sob. "You-how?"

"When he jumped we had a truck parked, filled with something soft for him to land on. Don't you remember? The truck was between you when he hit the ground. When he hit the truck, myself and some of Sherlock's homeless network pushed the body I'd dressed to be his double onto the ground and then the truck drove off. That whole crowd was in on it, John. Part of the network."

"But I saw him! I saw his face, touched him!"

She brought a hand to his temple. "The bike. The bike that hit you and you hit your head. It was to disorient you. You saw what you expected to see. And then we got the body out as fast as we could, before you could get a good look."

"Why? Why?"

She turned angrily to Sherlock. She strode over to him and grabbed his arm, dragging him forward several steps closer to John. She had not fought for the last three years, the last year with her life, to let him get away with flubbing this up now. "Tell him, Sherlock. Tell him what it was for!"

Sherlock hesitated and for a moment Molly got a glimpse of the problem. Sherlock Holmes was terrified.

"Sherlock," she said softly. "Tell him."

"I…It…it was for…"

An instant later Sherlock's arm had been ripped from her grasp and John through himself at the younger man's midsection and the pair went down hard on the roof.

"Tell me why, you bastard! Tell me why I had to spend the last three yours alone! Grieving! Tell me!" Sherlock was flat on his back on the ground, John straddling his thin frame and holding onto Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and shaking him. Tears poured from his eyes despite the angry words.

Molly moved to separate them but a hand on her shoulder stopped her. She turned to look at Irene.

"I think the boys have it from here, dear. I don't think you want to be around for how this ends, unless you're suddenly now a voyeur."

"Tell me why!" they heard John demand. "John-" they heard Sherlock mumble.

Molly looked unsure. "Are you certain they'll be alright?"

"How could you do this to me! For three years, Sherlock! Three years! Do you have idea what it's been like!" John was crying.

"Oh, yes. Time to make ourselves scarce, darling."

And Molly let Irene pull her back towards to entrance to the roof and out of sight of the two men.

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"Tell me why!" John demanded again.

They were both panting heavily. "John-" Sherlock choked out.

"How could you do this to me? For three years, Sherlock! Three years! Do you have any idea what it's been like!"

John's tears were dripping off his cheeks onto Sherlock's own and he felt his own start to well.

"Tell m-mmph!"

But John's words were cut off as Sherlock's hand flew to the nape of the smaller man's neck and dragged his head down to crash their lips together. For an instant there was total surrender before John reared back. Sherlock still lay flat on the ground, staring up at John who stared back in shock. Sherlock struggled onto one elbow. "John-" he started again. But was cut off as John grabbed the sides of his face and brought them together again. They were wrapped around each other like snakes as three years of mutual loneliness and longing exploded between them.

It took Sherlock a moment to realize John was mumbling against his lips and that his lips were wet and salty. Tears. And the word he kept mumbling. Why. John needed to know. He pressed his hands to John's cheeks to separate them an inch or two and pressed his forehead to John's as they lay on the roof he'd jumped off of three years earlier.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. I had to. I had to keep you safe. You needed to believe I'd done it. He…Moran. He would've killed you the moment he thought I was still alive. I needed to get rid of him first."

"What d'you mean?"

"That's where I've been. Molly helped me get out of the country and I got in touch with Irene. She owed me a favor. We found as much evidence as we could linking all of the hitmen to their crimes then turned it over to Interpol. They got them all. They're going away for everything they've done. You're safe. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, you're all safe."

"Sherlock-"

"I know you must hate me but please, I'm so sorry. I needed to keep you safe." Then to their mutual astonishment, the great Sherlock Holmes clutched John hard and sobbed into his shoulder. "I didn't know if I'd ever get back to you. I just didn't know. I'm sorry it took so long. Forgive me. Please."

John's hand went to Sherlock's dark hair, stroking it gently while he made nonsensical shushing noises into the top of his head. He had his best friend in his arms. His best friend who was very uncharacteristically…emoting…all over him. His best friend…who not 5 minutes ago was kissing him as though his life depended on it.

"I forgive you. Of course I forgive you. You're back. That's all that matters. You're back and I'm here."

There was an endearing sniffle from the vicinity of his shoulder then their eyes met again. John ran his thumb across Sherlock's cheek, catching the tears. "I've missed you. So much."

Foreheads pressed together again, eyes drinking each other in. "John. I have to tell you. I have to tell you something important. I don't know how you'll feel about. Molly told me but it wasn't the same as hearing it from you so…if you don't I…it's alright, I'm just asking for a chance really and-" His face was so serious, his eyes so grave that John gave a nervous laugh.

"Is the famous Sherlock Holmes really rambling right now? Someone get me a camera!"

"I love you, John."

John felt the breath back up in his lungs. Sherlock Holmes loved him. He couldn't find words.

The longer John went without responding, a dumbstruck look on his face, the more worried Sherlock became. What if what had happened moments ago, the frantic embrace had just been…shock? Or adrenaline? What if Molly had been wrong? Oh, God, he'd prepared for John's fury, even his hatred, but not for the chance that his feelings weren't returned.

John saw Sherlock was getting more and more tense, fear pumping off him in waves. Why can't I say anything! Say it, you bloody idiot! On a gasp of breath he forced out one word.

"Yes!"

Sherlock let the breath he'd been holding go. "Yes?" he asked nervously.

John nodded frantically. "Yes! I love you!"

A noise escaped Sherlock, one of relief and joy as he wrapped his arms around John. "John, I need…I need…"

"What? What do you need?"

Sherlock's smile was the brightest John had ever seen. "You. Just you."

And then their lips were fused together once more and they were laughing against each other's mouths, tears still spilling onto cheeks though neither knew which belonged to whom. They clung to one another under a brilliant sun and sky, together once more, never to be parted again.

**I'm considering a short little epilogue after this, showing John and Sherlock a few years down the line. Either way I hope you've enjoyed reading this! It's been great fun for me and a great way to deal with my endless misery over the end of Reichenbach and the neverending wait we're going to have for Series 3!**


	3. Epilogue

**So I had planned for this epilogue to be short and sweet. As you can see it's considerably longer but I could not be happier with where it took me. I hope you all enjoy reading it. These characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle and their current incarnations to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Bless you, gentlemen, for bring them into my life and filling my brain with delightful images.**

_**Epilogue**_

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, had never seen himself capable of something as common as domestic bliss. In fact, he'd never seen himself capable of any role other than the one he'd chosen as his life's work. But in the years since he'd come back to John Watson he'd found himself in the position of being a great many things to a great many people.

Friend.

Confidant.

Lover.

And most surprising of all: Father.

It had been nearly a year after he'd come back from the dead, he and John had wasted almost no time resuming their lives at 221B and, once the truth had come out about Jim Moriarty and Sherlock's innocence (and a few months of press-stalking), their lives had returned nearly to normal. They consulted with newly appointed Chief Superintendent Greg Lestrade on a variety of police cases but Sherlock had gone back to private detective work and the pair kept out of the media as much as humanly possible. Their relationship, which they had anticipated to face a great many difficulties, instead blossomed as naturally as their friendship had. And with it came a new understanding of one another. Which is why one night after dinner, walking back to the flat, Sherlock had noticed an expression on John's face that he hadn't seen before.

Following the line of John's gaze to whatever had put that…dare he say "wistful" look on his face, Sherlock saw a young family taking an evening stroll: man and woman, his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist and the young child, hardly more than four, dozing on his father's shoulder.

For the first time in their relationship, Sherlock felt a moment of sheer panic. Children. John wants children.

He silently assessed himself. He would still often go a full day or more without speaking, he still threw himself completely into his work, all with the absolute confidence that John would be there when he came up for air. Which he always was. But a child? A child made demands on time, on energy, on attention, could he sacrifice any of those things when his work was so important to him? He knew John would never broach the subject himself. John knew what Sherlock's work meant to him, had probably thought about this many times before and come to same conclusion. He could let it go. Wipe it from his 'hard drive', that look on John's face. But it was so sweetly hopeful that he knew it would be burned into his memory forever so Sherlock was tempted for the first time in his life to bend. To adapt to a lifestyle that would be more…conducive to raising a child.

He lay in bed that night considering. He had to admit that children fascinated him. Their wide range of emotions, their fresh outlook on things (a box wasn't a box when it could also be a pirate ship), and, as he glanced at his bed partner, there was something in him that warmed to the idea of a toddler with John's hair and eyes and smile.

He began slowly, working very consciously to not spend 24 hours, 7 days a week on a case, he came out of the world of the case as often as possible and was shocked to find that he had great capacity to multi-task. Except for that one incident with the chicken in the oven that caught on fire when he'd solved the case in the middle of it's cooking time and had rushed off to inform Lestrade. But he'd decided that that was an entirely unique event. He made an effort to discuss more personal matters with John, he'd always been observant but he was trying to be less blunt about the information he'd seen and ask instead if there was something bothering John.

John had noticed the changes in Sherlock's behavior and one night while playing Scrabble after about six months he'd asked.

"Are you alright? You've been acting…odd…the last few months."

"Odd?"

"Yeah, you haven't been…diving into cases like you used to. You've been around a lot more."

"Is that a problem?"

"No! No, of course not. It's just…odd. For you."

Sherlock considered a moment, perhaps it was time to have the conversation. He'd hoped to give this 'adapting' experiment a full year but it had truly gone better than he'd anticipated.

"I've been experimenting."

John looked confused. "On what?"

"Myself."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been trying to see if I could adapt. Be more available to you. Physically and emotionally."

John reached out and took his hand. "Sherlock, if I've given you the impression that I want you to change, I'm sorry. I never meant to, I-"

Sherlock waved him off. "No, no. It's just…something I saw once and I thought I'd try myself, to see if I could."

"Saw what?"

"You. About six months ago when we were walking back to the flat, something caught your eye and it made me think. It's gone very well and I think it's time we discussed it."

"Discussed what? What did I see?"

"Discussed to possibility of children."

He watched shock bloom on lover's face. Shock and, yes, there it was, hope.

"Children?"

"Yes."

"I-I didn't think you'd be at all interested in children."

"I assumed. But you are and I didn't want to just dismiss something you so obviously want. Hence the experiment."

John was staring at him in awe. He reached up with both hands to cup Sherlock's cheeks before leaning forward and pressing their lips together. Over the last year and a half, they had kissed in a myriad of ways. Rushed and excited, like in the beginning when they still couldn't believe he was alive and they were together, frantic and a little rough, when they had a fight but knew no one was going to walk out, slow and sweet, like this one, when love was just spilling out of them and made them both feel inexplicably tender.

"You," John said between kisses, "are without a doubt, the most amazing man I've ever met."

"I never get tired of hearing that."

John pressed their foreheads together and laughed. "I'm sure you don't."

They remained like that, foreheads together, hands linked in front of the fireplace for a long while. John finally broke the silence.

"So. A child."

"A baby. I determined that if we decide to do this that we should go about it properly. Start from the ground up so to speak."

"A baby," John said with wonder.

"That leaves us with a few options. Adoption, surrogacy."

They looked at one another and simultaneously said "surrogacy."

John smiled. "I want a baby with your eyes."

Sherlock smiled back. "I was thinking of one with yours."

"No one said we had to stop at one."

"Your mind, as always, continues to thrill me."

"Come over here and say that."

As far as important relationship conversations went, they agreed that it couldn't have gone (or ended) better.

It was about two months later that they decided to broach the subject once more, this time with a third party.

They had invited Molly to dinner one evening, something they did fairly regularly, and for the first time, the pair was oddly silent. After Molly caught them exchanging pointed looks for the fifth time that night she decided to move the conversation along.

"Alright, you two. What are you not telling me?"

They looked at her, then one another, then back to her. John opted to speak first.

"Well, Molly, Sherlock and I have been talking and…we've decided we want to start a family."

Molly's eyes widened and filled with tears. "A family? Oh, that's wonderful!"

They linked hands across the table. "We think so too."

"What are you planning? To adopt?"

They exchanged another look. "We were actually thinking of surrogacy."

"Oh, wow, really starting at the beginning, aren't you?"

"That's the plan."

She gave them a puzzled smile. "I don't know what you two have been so nervous about all evening. I'm thrilled for you, a baby is wonderful. You'll be brilliant parents. Did you think I'd be upset or-" She broke off as everything clicked into place. John's nervous tone when he'd invited her. The looks they'd been giving each other before and during dinner. The looks they were giving each other now.

"Oh. OH."

John hurried on. "We just wanted to talk to you about it, Molly. You're our best friend, you helped bring us back together, you saved his life. There's no one we trust more."

Her eyes were rapidly filling and she couldn't find the words. They both took it the wrong way and rushed to reassure her.

"Molly, please don't cry, it was just an idea-"

"You don't need to feel at all obligated to even consider it-"

"I'd love to!"

They both froze. "Really?" John asked.

"Of course, I would! Why wouldn't I!"

Both John and Molly were very surprised when Sherlock stood up from the table and left the room without a word. John looked at her, startled for a moment before rushing after him. Molly sat there for about five minutes, listening to the muffled voices coming from the bedroom before John came back out, eyes slightly red and a small smile on his face. She stood up.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset him or anything, I-"

"No, no, Molly. He's just…moved. I think he wants this more than he realized. You've just given us something wonderful."

John pulled her into a hug and they both had a little cry.

The process went surprisingly smooth. After about a month of debating whose…sample would be used, they decided to leave it to fate. Despite Molly's generous offer, they decided to go with an anonymous egg donor and that took another month of discussion and debate. They had been informed that it would be unlikely to take on the first attempt but clearly the angels had been smiling on them that day and four months later they found themselves toasting with sparkling cider and celebrating the miracle of fertility.

And for nine months, Sherlock Holmes didn't take a single case. With a disturbing single mindedness he had dove into learning everything he could get his hands on about parenting. What John took for excitement and anticipation, Sherlock knew was actually stark terror. But not the kind that he'd experienced during that far away case with Baskerville and H.O.U.N.D.. It was terror belied by hope and anxiety and…joy. A baby was coming. A baby with John.

Those nine months went by in a blur of information, the last two months of which was spent both anxiously and fearfully watching the ever expanding Molly toddle about 221B where they'd insisted she spend the last few months so that they could be available to her at all times.

Sherlock had expected some explosive moment, John, rushing about and panicking, Molly, panting and screaming in pain and himself a pacing wreck. But the night that Molly had gone into labor she very calmly walked into their room and put a hand on his shoulder. He'd met her eyes in the darkness and saw a beautiful smile and teary eyes and was amazed to find himself completely calm.

They had arranged for private birthing classes at home, partly because of their situation and partly because Sherlock felt wildly uncomfortable in a room full of enormous women panting and equal parts terrified and thrilled men offering words of nervous support.

Now the moment was here and the birthing classes were very nearly unnecessary, they had barely gotten Molly settled before she was hustled off to delivery and it was barely an hour later before the howls of life filled the hospital room. When the doctors had offered the baby to Molly she gave them an exhausted smile and a shake of her head before nudging a startled Sherlock forward.

Before he could so much as blink, a cheerfully round nurse was settling a neatly wrapped bundle in his arms.

His daughter. Katherine Molly Watson Holmes. He looked up to find John and saw him standing a couple of feet away, just lowering a camera, tears spilling out of his eyes. It took a moment for him to realize they were spilling out of his own as well.

The next four years passed in a blur of firsts: first words, first steps, first day of pre-school and the startling realization that their daughter was every inch her father's daughter.

Their first clue had come when she was three and had the chicken pox. It was late and she had been sleeping fitfully and was currently dozing in John's lap while he and Sherlock played Cluedo and John had just made his accusation: Mr. Green in the Observatory with the Revolver. Sherlock shook his head and opened his mouth but was interrupted by a soft, sleepy voice.

"It's the red lady, Papa. In the room with the books with the string."

They'd looked at one another, startled, before Sherlock had snatched up the envelope and spilled the cards out to reveal Miss Scarlet, the Library and the Rope.

After that it had been puzzles, treasure hunts, and riddles, anything they could think of to keep up with her rapidly progressing brain.

And somewhere in between it all they had decided they were having too much fun to not add to their strange little family. A year later, their son was born. This time using the same egg donor and exclusively John's contribution. Sherlock was determined to see John's smile on at least one of their children's faces. Genetically, he hit the mother load. Harry Michael Watson Holmes was the image of John and the process began again: first words, first steps, Kindergarten for Katie, pre-school for Harry and suddenly they both looked up and realized four more years had passed.

Sherlock lay in bed, the early morning light spilling into the room and thought about everything that had changed in the last several years.

He'd almost completely retired from private detective work and was instead working on his fourth year writing very successful scientific articles for a multitude of journals. John wasn't blogging anymore and had instead expanding his writing to a series of novels based on their early adventures. Writing left both of them with the time and accessibility to have new adventures, this time with their children.

His relationship with his brother had even smoothed itself out. Though for that he could thank his daughter. She had wormed her way into his brother's heart on his suddenly visits to Baker Street and quite often a rather extravagant present would arrive the following day from her much loved 'Uncle Mikey.' By the time Harry was born, Mycroft visited the flat at least once a week and was their most frequent babysitter.

It had come to the surprise of everyone (except, he swore, Sherlock) when their favorite friend and pathologist (and twice-served incubator), Molly Hooper, quit her job at St. Barts and hopped a plane chasing after their second favorite friend, dominatrix-turned-legitimate business woman, Irene Adler. Presently, the pair was happily ensconced in a very comfortable and settled life and Molly was once again pregnant, this time with a child for herself and Irene. Postcards and presents came often for the children and holidays always welcomed their presence.

Mrs. Hudson, still landlady (and occasional housekeeper) of Baker Street, quickly became a self-appointed granny and sweets were always finding their way upstairs and into their children's delighted hands.

Sherlock closed his eyes with a sigh, preparing to sleep just a little bit longer when he heard the door creak open. Knowing the game very well, he kept his eyes shut and waited as whispers approached the bed.

"They're still sleeping," came a rather too-loud-to-be-called-a-whisper declaration.

"Daddy said they had to be up at 7:30, it's only 7:00, we should let them sleep," came a considering whisper.

"But it's _today_, Kitty!"

"I know…"

"Is it 7:30 _now_?"

"It's only 7:01, Harry. Come on, I'll put the telly on for you."

"Can't we wake them _now_?"

Sherlock had to fight a smile at his daughter's long-suffering sigh. He imagined Mycroft had made a similar sound in their youth.

"Alright. Climb on up, you can wake Papa."

There was the mad scramble of footsie-pajama'd feet and the movement of the bed as 4-year-old Harry climbed up and situated himself between Sherlock and John, back to back with Sherlock so that he could have John's undivided attention. He waited for a moment and listened as his daughter's light footsteps crept to his side of the bed. There was a dip as she climbed up herself and lay down beside him, inching herself closer until they were nose to nose.

He knew what he'd see when he opened his eyes. It was his face, rounder with youth and decidedly more feminine, but his face nonetheless. Eyes a pale grey-blue and nearly black hair that waved and curled and was tied back with a red ribbon. He never lost any pleasure in looking at his children's faces but there was something remarkable about looking at his daughter and seeing himself stamped so decisively on another human being.

Letting his eyes open slowly, grey-blue met grey-blue and the dimples on his daughter's cheeks peeked out as she smiled.

"Morning, Daddy."

"Morning, Katie."

"I'm sorry we woke you so early."

"It's alright, love, I was awake."

She nestled closer. "Are you excited, too?"

"Very."

"Do you think Papa's excited?"

"Why don't you ask him?" came a rough with sleep voice from over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock rolled over and Katie propped herself on his chest as she looked into her brother's madly grinning face and John's sleepy smile.

"Morning, Papa."

"Morning, Kitty. And yes, so you know, I'm very excited."

"What time do we have to be there again?" Harry asked.

"Ten. But Uncle Mikey and Uncle Greg will be here at 9."

"What about Aunt Irene and Aunt Molly?" Katie asked.

Sherlock ran a hand over her dark hair. "They're flying up from Paris this morning, they'll meet us there."

Katie nodded before hopping off the bed and holding out a hand for her brother. "Come on, Harry. Time for breakfast."

"Can I have waffles?" came Harry's ecstatic reply.

"We'll all have waffles," John said. "We'll be out in a minute, you two go ahead."

Harry darted out of the room and a moment later the sound of cartoons reached the bedroom. Katie gave her father's an eye roll and an indulgent smile before she left as well to keep an eye on her brother.

Sherlock rolled over and found John's eyes on him and a much bigger smile on his face.

"You ready?" John asked.

"Incredibly."

"Not nervous are you?"

Sherlock slid his bare feet over to press against John's. "Not even the slightest bit chilled."

"Good." John leaned forward and they indulged in a long, slow kiss. Several, in fact, before Sherlock pulled back.

"Unfortunately, we may be up early but there's not nearly enough time for _that._"

John sighed. "We'll make up for it this weekend at least."

"Of course."

John smiled again. "Hey."

"Yes, John?"

"We're getting married today."

Sherlock returned the smile. "Yes, we are."

An hour and a half later, waffles enjoyed and bathing complete, their little family was finishing dressing for the big day. John had his tie loose around his neck while he tied Harry's who was perched on the table in the kitchen. Sherlock had finished retying the ribbon in Katie's hair and she was currently tying his tie. Her little hands, already very adept at the piano, moved gracefully forming the knot. With a final review, she nodded. "All done."

Glancing at her handy-work in the mirror, Sherlock nodded back. "Excellent job, Katie."

She smiled. "I've been practicing." And she walked into the kitchen to tie John's.

There was a knock on the door.

"I'll get it!" Harry cried as he hopped off the table and ran for the door. He flung it open to reveal Mycroft and Lestrade, both looking very sharp in their suits.

"Uncle Mikey! Uncle Greg!" Abandoning John's half-tied tie, Katie rushed to the door to throw herself into Mycroft's waiting arms as Harry had already been scooped into Lestrade's.

Lestrade grinned. "Well, look at the two of you. Gettin' married in an hour and barely ready. Hurry it along, then. Harry and me are just gonna go wait in the car." And he turned, already whispering conspiratorially with Harry.

Mycroft gave his brother and John a nod and a smile before holding out a hand to Katie. "Shall we go down as well while your fathers finish, Kitty?"

She started to nod before turning with wide eyes to John. "I didn't finish your tie!"

John smiled at her. "It's alright, sweetheart. I can finish it myself. You go along with your uncle."

She nibbled on her bottom lip, hesitating. Mycroft leaned down to her. "I have an advance copy of your father's new book in the car, you can have it now if you like."

Her eyes lit up and she dashed past him and down the stairs, calling for Mrs. Hudson.

"Bribery, Mycroft?"

A smug smile on his face, Mycroft turned to leave. "I just thought you two might like some privacy. Do hurry along though, we can't have you late for your own wedding, little brother." And he was gone as well.

Sherlock turned to John. "I hate it when he's right."

"Right about what?" John asked as Sherlock walked over to him.

"I did want a moment alone with you," he said as he began finishing where Katie had left off on John's tie. John smiled at him.

"What do you need?" he asked softly.

Sherlock smiled and kissed him gently.

"Absolutely nothing. You've given me everything I could ever need or want. I love you, John."

"I love you, too. Now let's go get married."

_**The End**_

**I hope you all enjoyed this. It's been incredible fun for me to write and, in my opinion, a successful return to writing fanfiction and writing in general. I hope to write some more stories for this show but in the meantime, I wish us all luck with making it until Series 3.**

**#IBelieveInSherlockHolmes**


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